


Love Is Simple

by ZenithMaguire



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Flangst?, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 18:29:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7372756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZenithMaguire/pseuds/ZenithMaguire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first Reese wanted to know more about Finch, who he was, or had been. Then he resolved to make sure he was safe for the future of their work together. Eventually he found he needed to be nearby, to make sure Harold was alright, to be by his side the moment he wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Is Simple

'Good night, Mr. Reese,' Finch's voice said in his ear. A little terse, he thought, but Finch had seemed satisfied with their work for the day. 

He was cut loose for the night, and that meant he could switch to recreation. He'd started it out of a sense of necessity, wariness, then concern, but he'd gradually begun to enjoy these evenings, being out with Harold: that was how he wryly thought of it to himself, keeping a watchful eye, engaging in a little contest. It felt good to have a challenging opponent keeping him stretched and limber, without the imminent threat associated with the numbers. He was determined that on his nights off at least, there would be no innocent casualties. This number would always be safe, if he was there. 

He was impressed at Finch's stealth, the way he vanished from a crowded sidewalk, slipped through entrances that a passer-by barely would have registered. He wondered how many of these buildings Finch might own or have connived to access through other means, false identities, forged passes. 'Double life' was an absurd understatement where his machiavellian little handler was concerned, that much had become clear. In spite of the variation of his routes Finch was clearly sticking to a set of places he knew well, streets where he could slip away. 

Without the acerbic, quavering voice in his ear John felt even more like a ghost, only existing in his observation of other lives. He'd rejoined the human race only to be tethered to someone just as elusive, a life just as otherworldly as his own. It was comforting, somehow, to know his employer ate, wrapped up against the cold, put up his umbrella when the skies opened. Even the rich colours, the heavy texture of the fabric of Finch's clothes were reassuring, real. The outline of his glasses, the round stomach snugly encapsulated in its waistcoat: a point of solidity in a shady world of grey. He would see Finch buy something, thank someone for holding a door, and know how his voice would sound, courteous but formal. He would find himself smiling at these tiny certainties.

Lately it seemed to be getting even harder to catch a glimpse of the familiar little tuft of hair, the awkward shuffle of weight as Harold's stiff back retreated into a crowd or a shadow. Reese was starting to suspect Finch had rigged up some kind of proximity warning. Reese had to stay further back, make up distances to catch up after sudden turns. He knew he'd been made, at first, and Harold had shown some irritation, but for a while now nothing had been said. The side of Reese's mouth stretched up involuntarily as he imagined Finch...exasperated? Resigned? Could he be secretly flattered at his curiosity? No, not that. But he might accept the silent appearances as a protective presence. Or at least a nuisance that could be tolerated, as long as John remained effective enough in his official work.

In certain moments Reese wasn't entirely sure that Finch wasn't a little frightened of him, and that thought always caused a little pull in his stomach: guilt and regret, a tiny chill. He shook his head: Finch had nothing to be afraid of. He was formidable enough, in his own way, with his sharp-tongued acuity, his haughty, detached suspiciousness.

The street was what Finch would probably call 'somewhat insalubrious' but the small independent cinema looked welcoming enough: posters of old films, foreign films, an old-fashioned charm to the slightly dilapidated exterior. He waited calmly outside until Finch had taken his ticket and passed through the doors to the screen, then followed into the foyer and checked the screening times and screen numbers to ask for the right film, pursing his lips a little at the slip of paper, wondering what all this would turn out to mean. He walked quietly through the peeling, red-painted double doors into the darkened room.

The movie had just started as he took in the scene. The room was two thirds empty, and still except for the screen. He half expected Harold to be gone already, slipped through the emergency exit, even melted through the floor like a stage spectre disappearing through a trapdoor.

He scanned the rows warily and there, two rows from the back, not far from the aisle, he saw the little quiff, the narrow, snugly-jacketed shoulders, the rigid posture that gave an air of austere aloofness that contrasted so endearingly with Harold’s small, plump figure. It seemed strange that Finch would choose to watch anything here rather than in his own place, wherever that was. With his spinal issues, why would he decide to sit still for hours in the relative confinement of cinema seats? A discreet rendezvous with some kind of contact? There was no one sitting within reach of Harold, the rest of the audience was settled and no more customers walked in late. Maybe he'd been here before, knew how comfortable he would be, which screens were accessible. Perhaps today had brought less pain than usual, allowed him to indulge an old taste. John slunk into the back row, behind Finch and slightly to his side, but safely out of view. 

The seats weren't that uncomfortable, John found as he lowered himself quietly onto the worn red velvet. 'An old injury', Finch called it. He hadn't always been that way. Reese wondered if there were pastimes Finch had had to give up. Sports even? It didn't seem that likely, for someone so computer-oriented - even internally John refrained from calling Harold anything like a nerd, his intelligence was too obviously towering for that presumption. Still, he must have changed his habits dramatically. Finch moved like his skull was fused solid to his neck, and Reese could almost imagine the three-piece suits welded to him like some natural armour he had developed quite organically, a subtle-tinted little carapace shielding him from visibility. He smiled at a sudden image of Finch as a smooth, impenetrable brass statue, one of those happy, seated buddhas whose bellies you're supposed to rub for luck, wreathed with green tea fumes like incense. Somehow he couldn’t quite visualise anything but the tight little smile Finch barely allowed himself. He knew there must be scars underneath the controlled, impervious surface, perhaps hidden by tie and collar. Perhaps Finch had never let anyone see. 

The title of the film had made John wonder briefly if it was going to be dirty, somehow, but he quickly rejected the thought. He couldn't imagine Harold...well it was probably just some arty French film. Highbrow and culturally something or other. John was slightly surprised at the movie, he could imagine Finch calling it 'unabashedly sentimental', a story about a theatrical troupe, set in the nineteenth century. A complicated love story. It was emotional, stylised, visually attractive. John glanced at the shifting greys of the screen in between musings at the stark silhouette ahead of him. He had a splendid view of the spectacle-arm looping over Finch's protruding ear, the blunt, closely trimmed hair at Harold’s neck meeting the crispness of his shirt. John sat back lazily in the dark, settling down to wonder what Finch was thinking, feeling. 

The film washed over him without pulling his mind away from the enigma of his secretive little charge. After some time he noticed an uncontrollable shudder take hold of the usually poised shoulders, a rough, convulsive movement that had him leaping instinctively to his feet. What if Harold was having a seizure, or had been stabbed with some kind of poison as he passed through the darkened streets? John sprang briskly and noiselessly down the shallow steps, scanning for any movement in the room, until he could see Harold's face, his eyes half-open and wet, the light from the screen reflected from the tears running down his cheek. A cold ache punched into John’s chest like a steel bolt.

He bent down automatically as he hurried along the row to Harold's side, groping in his pocket for a handkerchief which he pressed into Harold's hand as he took the neighbouring seat, impulsively placing one arm around his employer's shoulders, grasping the nearer arm with his other hand. Harold stared at him round-eyed, horrified, the lenses of his glasses spattered with tiny droplets flung up by the periodic rise and fall of drenched lashes. John was stricken, somehow, even though he should have felt relieved that there was nothing unnatural transpiring.

'Ssh,' Reese whispered, counting on Harold's sense of decorum and desire for anonymity to keep him quiet. Finch's cheeks and jaw were streaked with tears, his heavy eyelids puffy, eyes glassy and brimming wet. He was breathing too quickly and the soft skin under his chin was shaking in intervals. John stroked Harold's shoulder and upper arm with the sides of his thumbs as he held onto him firmly, and Harold’s pose softened almost imperceptibly as he turned forward again, eyes downcast, grimacing, his breath quietly stertorous with tiny sobs. 

Reese felt disoriented, almost unnerved. The devious mastermind, his wily quarry, was reduced to this tremulous frame, acquiescing to his touch, perhaps not entirely willingly but without protest. He could almost feel tears starting in his own eyes at each tiny quake of Finch's unknowable grief. Was this what he had come here for? Somehow he couldn’t imagine Finch able to cry even alone in a lit room. Did he cry at night, lying alone in bed in the darkness? John realised he'd assumed 'alone', had always assumed it, though he couldn't say why. Of course they both had to be cautious, but Finch, in all his various guises, was a master at that. And even besides his wealth and competence, Harold wasn't unattractive. He could be prickly or cantankerous but that just made it all the more endearing when he allowed himself an access of his underlying soft-heartedness. Finch could charm, if he wanted. Suddenly John wondered if Finch had been here with someone before, or watched this film with someone once, and felt a pang, only sharper for the sadness of not knowing, of his own ignorance of how to help. Was that why Harold sat near the back, to make sure he had every opportunity to avoid someone who might recognise him?

John found he had to make an effort to calm his own breathing, to still himself for Harold. The feeling of warmth through Finch's jacket, the rhythmic movement of his own hands over its soft fibres, the darkness: all soothed him as he tried to soothe Harold. Gradually he heard the fitful gasps deepen into long, hard breaths, steady into gentler sighs. Whatever internal storm had been battering Harold was passing. Harold was wiping his salt-streaked face, rubbing a drip from the end of his nose, blowing it as surreptitiously as was humanly possible. 

The film was long. John let his left hand move down to Finch's forearm, stopped clutching him but left the contact there, soft and light. They were leaning in to each other, just slightly, a border of warmth trapped between them. He would sneak looks sideways at Harold; the tears had dried up but his face was still slack, mournful, unfocused. John wondered where Harold had gone, what time his mind was occupying. And he started to wonder how on earth he was going to get out of this unprecedented position without embarrassing or humiliating Finch. 

Harold was apparently feeling a similar concern; as the film drew to a close, he began to fidget slightly. John smiled at the transparency of this restlessness, and fixed on an exit strategy that would spare Harold any awkward explanations. He made sure no eyes were on them, then leaned over, brushing the side of his face briefly against Harold's hair, not exactly a kiss or a nuzzle but a tiny affectionate nudge, a momentary contact with the soft brown bristle as he squeezed Harold's hand, then pulled away. Harold was looking up at him, startled by the sudden movement, but John somehow made himself turn away, stride up the few shallow steps to the exit. He would have to forgo the closure of the final scene of the movie. There was no need to wait and see if the protagonist was reunited with his lover: there was something more important to resolve. 

Moving quickly through the lobby, John picked up a flyer from a rack. It had a still from the film they'd just seen, and a list of other showings in the same season. He took it outside and, after checking the street for signs of trouble, pretended to study it as he stood a little way from the entrance. He wouldn't make eye contact, or insist on any recognition from Finch, but would stay in sight in case he chose to approach. He didn't; when the audience left the theatre Reese saw Finch hurrying awkwardly in the opposite direction. 

The flyer was entitled 'poetic realism'; there was another film by the same director showing at the same time next Thursday. Reese wondered whether he should come back for it; maybe Harold would be there again. Maybe he would need someone there with him. 

It was late, and he followed Finch at a distance, until he lost him.

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't abandoned this, honest! it got a bit more unwieldy than i expected but will be continued once i've grappled with it and made it behave. or possibly once it's devoured me entirely and learned how to operate my laptop on its own. lots of thanks to everyone who's read, commented and left kudos, i hope i can come up with the goods for you! if not, prepare yourself for a world containing a sentient rinchfic run amuck. ~shrugs~ good luck with THAT i guess


End file.
